


Too Long in the Night

by Mercury17



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, everyone gets to play spy, some description of violence/injury, well sort of case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercury17/pseuds/Mercury17
Summary: What if, at the end of Series 3, Moriaty had never appeared on those screens and Sherlock had taken off to go undercover? John tries to convince Mycroft to go on a rescue mission. Sherlock tries to survive with what he went through last time making it all the harder.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posting from ff.net. Had this account for a while but never posted to it, so hope this goes OK. This was multichapter but I'm posting the text as three long pieces. Hope you're all having a nice evening (or whatever time it is). Thanks for reading, reviews welcome :)

i

"Once! He only showed me once."

Mycroft Holmes looked up from his desk, startled by John's outburst.

John Watson stood in the doorway of Mycroft's office realising he may have started the conversation he'd been practising in his head half way through.

"Ah," Mycroft had pulled himself together in an instant. "I wondered how long it would take you."

It had been 1 week 3 days 5 hours and 45 minutes since Sherlock's plane had taken off, carrying him away to Eastern Europe.

It had taken 1 week 2 days 20 hours and 17 minutes for the phrase '6 months' to filter through John's head before it became '6 months until I die'. And it had taken 9 hours and 28 minutes for John Watson to resolve on a course of action, take a cab to Pall Mall and storm up the stair's of Mycroft's apartment.  
"That... that explains the lack of security." John was panting slightly now.

"Oh the security was there," Mycroft assured him "Just set up as a permeable membrane if you will - they were to allow you through unimpeded."

"OK. Oookay," John took a deep, steadying breath. "You sent your brother off to die in some Serbian hellhole and you knew I would work this out?"

"Please John, let's not make assumptions, it may not be the Serbians who get him this time." The flash of fire in the doctor's eyes made Mycroft reconsider joking. 

"You're going to help me get him out." John said, his voice barely kept even under seething anger "You sent him there, you know he's in danger, you knew I was coming, you must have a plan. Also, how long were you planning on waiting to see if I figured this out? Because it's not like time is of the essence here or anything. Mike."

"As long as it took - he does have another 5 and a half months left to him you know."

"No! No he doesn't because..." John broke off, considering the best way to convey his sentiments to the emotionless creature in front of him. 

"He only showed me once, the scars from Serbia I mean. Do you get the implication of that?"

Mycroft shifted in his chair slightly, curious in spite of himself, and gestured for John to continue.

"Sherlock Holmes is not a man to hide his scars. Hide his pain, yes, whilst the wound is still fresh. Heaven forbid anyone should work out his body is human. But after that what would it matter to him? Immaterial really to bother covering up something as superficial as a scar. Yet with his back - I only saw it once."

John remembered the day well. 5 days after the return. Sherlock had ridden from his customary seat to wonder off to his bedroom. John had noticed a streak of red through Sherlock's white shirt.

"God, Sherlock, have you hurt yourself?" 

Sherlock Jumped at the question and spun round. 

"No of course not." The answer was too quick

"The back of your shirt Sherlock, come on I've already seen it, you may as well let me look. Won't breathe a word I promise."

Sherlock's reaction had been uncharacteristically unsettled. He started to back away from John, refusing to turn around.

"Sherlock..." John was getting worried.

"Fine! Have it your way. You'd probably find out eventually."

And Sherlock had turned around, unbuttoned his shirt, and exposed his back. John gasped.

"Sherlock only hides a wound that is still fresh and hurting, so as not to show any pain. Do you understand the pain he was in after Serbia?"

" I was ther-"

"And you watched! Mycroft this was torture. Someone taking days in trying to hurt him. Someone enjoying making him suffer. And all the while his family had been watching without lifting a finger to help him."

"It would have been unsafe."

"I don't care. Well, I do, but even if that was true that wasn't how Sherlock saw it. What I'm trying to get you to understand,"

John closed his eyes, trying to forget the criss cross of bloody wounds across his friend's back and arms. Trying to forget Sherlock's reluctance to let him help. Trying to forget the depths of horror in which he knew Sherlock was living and had not yet recovered from.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "What I am trying to get you to understand is that we do not have 6 months. This is not a matter of black and white, life or death. This is about an already broken man being pushed past the point of no return. Mycroft there will come a point at which we can no longer rescue your brother." John knew from Mycroft's face that he was making progress. "Mycroft, we need in, and we need to get him out.

-//-

Sherlock ran. He ran through the forest, over ditches and dead trees until he reached the river. This wasn't like last time, he kept reminding himself, they had caught him last time. He dropped into the water and started making his way upstream. 

OK so he's been compromised here, but the mission wasn't a loss yet. His disguise had been too good, he was sure, for an accurate description. Time for cover story number two. Provided he survived the night of course.

Sherlock kept himself focused on the task at hand: namely getting away and masking his scent. But somewhere in the last 10 days, amongst the cold and pain and fear, he had stopped making plans for his return to Baker Street. He had been entertaining ideas of how to slip back into his old life at some point during his exile. Whether that was through pardon or disguise he wasn't sure yet. However, the longer he went on, the further away his old life seemed. And without that motivation, how long could he last?

Sherlock Holmes trudged on into the cold Serbian night, now even aware yet that his hope had run out.

ii

John, in an attempt to take his mind off the fact he was just three hours away from touching down in potentially hostile territory, was contemplating just how comfy the seats on the jet Mycroft had commandeered were. They might just be the most comfy thing he had ever sat on he decided. Try as he might though, he just couldn't enjoy them. He drummed his fingers idly on the arm rest, clacking out a nervous rhythm.

John saw Mycroft's lips thin ever so slightly in response to the noise and decided now would be as a good an opening as any for a conversation. 

"Where are we going?" his voice sounded strange after so long in silence. 

"To the first place Sherlock has been sent, a remote outpost of the Serbian military." came the patient reply.

"I thought Sherlock was doing some top level thing?"

"Yes he's to uncover suspected terrorist links of certain government agencies - some of which we are allied with - which we suspect are taking shady orders from traitorous members of our own government. To do this the agent sent was to infiltrate the top levels of these government agencies, then look for evidence of the wider implications of their dealings in the field.

"Unfortunately, despite my brother's undeniable competency at such work, an operative with no option of returning home is hardly where you place all your trust. Even before his exile, Sherlock was looked at with suspicion by many within our own ranks. Therefore the mission has been somewhat turned on it's head. Sherlock is to have begun picking up information about government orders from remote locations such as this outpost. The he is to work his way inwards hopefully attaining his coup de grace in roughly five and a half months time. At which point he would have been discovered, captured, tortured, executed etc. 

"Our security service's decided that any information is better than none and rather than send a high-risk agent on a delicate mission straight off the bat they would send Sherlock to glean as much as he could from less important sources."

John let himself contemplate all that before talking again. He considered just how pared down the details were, and how much of it would be lies. At any rate it told him as much as he needed to know for getting on with. Mycroft had certainly told him more than John had expected.

"So we're following him?" he stated baldly.

"Sherlock was to have made dead-drops of information along the way. Horribly old fashioned I know, yet apparently deemed the most suited to this mission."

"And the government's just OK with you waltzing in here early, picking up your brother's trail, the won't susp-"

"The British government will learn to adjust to this or it will have much bigger problems to deal with."

John shivered at the coldness in Mycroft's voice. He began to actually look at Sherlock's older brother for the first time. Here was a man who quite simply joined the dots very fast. Lightening fast. He could make connections no one else in the room would have thought to look for. His brain could store vast amounts of information and cross reference at an alarming pace. Sherlock had said that the government had begun using Mycroft as a short-cut before his intelligence had made him indispensable. John wondered if the government would now be paying for the laziness.

Mycroft may have seemed and inthreatening man, languidly drifting to the top as his roots in each department grew and spread. Yet when you thought of the power he had acrewed... Mycroft was a supercomputer made sentient. John wasn't sure if they shouldn't all be more than a little bit scared.

Sherlock was a finely honed tool - he had channeled himself into becoming a precision instrument, meant to slash and cut at mysteries and conspiracies until he laid bare the truth. Mycroft had put no such effort into refining himself. He was angry now though. He might not even know it himself but John could feel the anger building in the man sitting next to him. He had seen his little brother used and betrayed - the country used and betrayed - by incompetency and greed just too many times. 

Do not wake the sleeping giant... All Mycroft's powers were rising, not like Sherlock's blade and fire, but in a cold implacable storm surge. The East wind takes us all. John Watson wondered for just how many people, Mycroft would become the East wind.

-//-

Sherlock had woken when the first weak light of dawn filtered through the forest canopy to where he slept. He had bedded down for the remainder of the night, utterly spent and exhausted, in a sodden pile of mulchy leaves. His fear and adrenaline had got him up far earlier than his body needed, he noted when he stood up to a spinning and painful head. Next camp, next target. Get the information, make the drop. Move on. That was what he let roll around his mind as he trudged on. Make the drop. Move on. He repeated it with every reluctant footstep.

He was Sherlock Holmes, he did not get the luxury of giving up. Not even when he kept hearing the snap of phantom dogs behind him. Not even as he heard he the clank of chains and viscous demands for information draw ever nearer. Sherlock Holmes did not permit himself such weaknesses. The East wind takes us all in the end. Sherlock knew now that he would never live to see the cleaner, better, stronger land it left behind, but he was damned if it would take him before he let it.

Somewhere in that watery sunlight and muddy landscape, Sherlock Holmes found the strength to keep walking toward his end.

-//-

Mycroft pursed his lips and let out an irritated huff as his feet stepped into the wet grass at the edge of the runway. He turned to find John hurrying after him. The doctor's jaw was set and his shoulders pushed back; his eyes were filled with a resolve that came naturally to him. Mycroft had to work so hard to find that level of determination in himself. He mused on how comforting it was to have the steady dependable warmth of John Watson by your side - and Mycroft had only had him for a few hours. He could start to see what little brother saw in this companionship business. Mycroft buried his already numb hands into his coat pocket and followed his best hope of finding Sherlock safely out into the cold January air.

iii

Sherlock had spent the day skulking around the perimeter of the camp and by now it was nearing dusk. Ideally he would have liked to do several days recon, but try as he might he couldn't ignore his body forever and hunger, lack of sleep and the persistent cold were slowly wearing him down. He could not afford another night in the open.

Taking advantage of the murky twilight (fuzzy vision without clarity but without the guards having gained the alertness they needed at night) he slipped into what he had guessed to be a shower block. He entered the outer door, binned his clothes and headed for the changing area with a trajectory that suggested he had come from the cubicles. Finding an isolated peg, he dressed in a mix of uniforms and quickly fell in with a leaving group of soldiers. They were a group who knew each other but were not close friends, and the group was big enough that he could slip in unnoticed. A young soldier he found himself next to, assuming Sherlock was a mutual friend of a friend he had simply forgotten about, started to include Sherlock in the group's conversation. By the time they reached the mess there were 15 people who would testify to knowing Sherlock.

He accepted a non-descript meal reluctantly. Eating from necessity always made him feel betrayed by his own body. Still, no John or Mycroft or Lestrade this time, no one to work with him. No one to care how starved he was. No one to hide his own humanity from. 

The soldier next to him told a joke that taught Sherlock a brand new Serbian word (he guessed from a context he normally pleaded ignorance of) and Sherlock laughed along whilst scanning the mess for a seat. He found his mark at the end of one of the long tables sitting facing the wall. The man did not have the build or easy comradery of the other soldiers suggesting he fulfilled a different task to them. His finger tips were flattened suggesting a professional typist (or maybe concert pianist, but well... balance of probability...) and they were also blackened from rifling through sheets of paper. Office worker then. In a place like this the administrative staff would be pared back to only the essentials meaning this man probably handled important documents personally. And his downcast, hunched demeanour suggested stress.

Sherlock - his meal now a prop rather than a burden - strode over and sat down and started idle chatter. He felt a thrill and satisfaction as this man gave up secrets he did not know he was telling. When was the game ever truly over?

-/-

John saw a look on Mycroft's eyes, already worn from 'exertion', that made his stomach drop sickeningly. They had spent the last hour digging and probing around a tree that Mycroft swore the information drop would be buried under to no avail. Now John saw Mycroft had quite clearly given up on it being found. And Mycroft always had a plan. Which meant Sherlock definitely had not not managed to make the drop. Which meant...

"Do cheer up doctor, leg work is hard enough without you looking mawkish all the time."

"Cheer up - " John nearly choked on his words. "Sherlock didn't make it here. Sherlock didn't finish a case!" He was careful not raise his voice above a level but was slowly becoming more frantic.

"Sherlock is rarely without a back-up plan. The fact he had been here before made this stage particularly risky but also allowed us to plan a contingency procedure. My brother was to hide all his research inside this facility and would drop it here if departing safely. Clearly he did not depart safely. However we are are not left without options."

Mycroft set off towards the base at a smart pace.

"Come along doctor," he called behind him. John followed knowing Mycroft would need his nerve to get through this, and trying to ignore the whiteness of the elder Holmes' knuckles, clutched tight around his cane.

iv

"Jesus Christ." John put his hand on the cold stone wall for support and breathed sharply through his nose to stop himself from retching.

"I brought you here because you had the stomach to deal with distressing situations. If I had known you would wilt like that I would have left you in your cosy front room. And please remember to keep the English to a bare minimum."

John realised that Mycroft was studiously keeping his voice to a barely above a whisper. He also realised that Mycroft's voice was far too carefully steady, his words too carefully placed. John felt a perverse relief in knowing Mycroft was shaken too. It meant what he was standing in had not become normality. John had chosen violence and the grimy underside of humanity as a way of life but he needed a touchstone of cosy reality - needed to know the darkness he dealt with day to day was not how the world as a whole was supposed to operate - to keep him going.

Mycroft had breezed them past security with an ease and confidence John had only witnessed in Sherlock when the detective was at the height of his game. It gave him an impression of familiarity so incongruous to their surroundings that he had almost laughed. He had managed to pass that off as a cough.

God this place was bleak.

Mycroft had got them into a small interrogation room alone. He worked a brick free from the wall - and the part of John's brain that was still able to be amused was storing that detail up to taunt Sherlock with later, bit cliche wasn't it, false bricks? - and removed from it a bundle of papers wrapped tight around a memory stick. Using his phone (well, a bit more high tech than a phone but John was sticking with phone), Mycroft was uploading the memory stick's data. And John had to stand there and wait, whilst trying to deal with his surroundings.

Seeing the place where Sherlock had gone through so much pain was taking its tole on the doctor. He was used to traumatic situations, he was used to murder scenes and battlegrounds. Yet here... the silence but for the listless drip of water, the rusted metal and dried blood and the ever persist ant cold was somehow more harrowing to him. Somehow the visceral horror of what he normally faced allowed him to gain excitement. A thrill. Here was far too chilling. The casual deliberateness of the cruelty meted out by people to people, and not just people, to his friend was enough to make him nauseous.

"Can't you hurry up?" he spat at Mycroft through clenched teeth. 

"No John, the good of the mission before our own personal comforts."

Oh dammit all to hell. People had hurt Sherlock. They'd tortured him. They'd made it their job to make him suffer. He'd been trapped in this room and bled onto this floor and there was nothing John could do but stand there and look at the aftermath. He couldn't stop it when it was happening, he hadn't healed Sherlock after it had happened and now during his rescue mission, what he'd fought for, he was useless. He could only stand there impotently whilst Mycroft did something terribly clever in another language. John thrust his hand into his pocket to stop the tremor.

"A search party was deployed three night ago in pursuit of an unspecified target." Mycroft's voice made John jump. With the rage building in his head he'd forgotten how quiet this place was. "Needed to do something whilst the data was uploading so reading confidential files seemed like a good use of time. As you can see," Mycroft gestured around the room," they returned empty handed."

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock." Mycroft nodded. "Only my little brother could have caused this much fuss at an outpost this remote and yet evaded capture."

"Right," John wanted to ask what if they'd just killed him or what if a million other horrible awful things but decided to trust in Mycroft's confidence. There was no need to spread doubt.

"Onwards John, there's hope yet." Mycroft marched briskly out the room without a second glance.

John however, let himself drink it all in. He would not allow himself to forget this place. The absolute coldness of the place. The knowledge of the injuries suffered here. This kind of clinical cruelty was completely alien to John Watson's soul yet he made himself look long and hard. Finally, knowing that this room was painted in his memories with indelible ink, he turned and left. A slow burning, smouldering rage fuelled him now. He would not feel like that again. God have mercy on whoever stood in his way, John Watson was going to save a friend.

-//-

Said friend was at that moment contemplating just how good he was at picking locks. It was an art form really. In fact Sherlock had made such an impression on the secretary he could have had the door left open for him. But Sherlock preferred it this way. It all added to the fun.

Really, he thought, as the door swung soundlessly open in the dark corridor, he was getting far too good at this espionage game all together. He smiled to himself. The government had though this target would take him three days to crack and he'd managed eight hours. He'd be through with this mission in two weeks at this rate.

His smile faltered as he realised just how final the end of this mission would be. 

With considerably less glee Sherlock slipped into the office. He had work to do.


	2. Part 2

v

What had started out as a suspicion just a few days ago, had grown steadily with each hour, was now confirmed by Mycroft delivering a sharp kick to a wall. Mycroft Holmes was frustrated and John Watson thought now might be as good a time as any to break in. They'd spent the past week doggedly following Sherlock, and at every turn found the detective just a little bit further ahead of them.

"We're not going to catch up with him are we?" John said, more of a statement of fact then a question really.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose breathing hard, and took a few seconds to answer.

"No," The word seemed forced out against his will "Unless he gets himself caught there's no catching up with him."

"Right and you'd underestimated how quickly he could..?"

"Doctor as my brother no doubt told you neither modesty nor boastfulness serve any purpose. I see my brother's intelligence as it truly is. I neither under nor overestimate him and I haven't since I first analysed him a child."

"OK well that's all well and fancy but we're quite out of our depths' now."

"If you'd be so good as to let me finish John. What I did underestimate was the time required for leg work. I have no experience to go on, a true intelligence knows their own limits and delegates when necessary. I read the official analysis of the mission. I adjusted their timings for my own estimations of Sheetrock but I had more faith in their analysis than mine. An now here we are, in another fruitless dank little hovel with little brother miles ahead."

"So we skip to the end." John said.

Mycroft looked up, met John's eyes and smiled."Exactly."

John felt a shiver run through him at being on the same wavelength as the man in front of him. Over the past week he had watched Mycroft perform a continuous string of manipulations and deductions and keep so many deceptions in the air that the doctor's previous instinctual fear of the elder Holmes was now a fear based on observation. This was Mycroft with very little field experience. This was a man who was never more than five minutes from a home comfort. Imagine what he'd be like in a month.

What John hadn't realised was how much Mycroft was starting to rely on him. John was no longer a passive hanger on. There was barely a major move that Mycroft did not run by John now to watch the doctor pick up the petty human details he had missed. Petty human details that would have brought this all crashing down around their heads long ago.

But what neither man had realised, but both were unconsciously grateful for, was to have another person to stand with who would go to the lengths and depths that they would for Sherlock Homes.

-//-

Sherlock was burning through his missions now. He was using up his time on Earth at a rather alarming rate in fact. Really, he thought, as he ingratiated himself at yet another camp with a muddy football match, you'd think he was racing to the finish line. In his existential crisis he missed a shot at a goal and was duly relegated to a defensive position. He supposed he had no reason to stop and wait... nothing to hold him back now. Just the thrill of the game to keep him going. A game he had never played so fast before... well, he had always been a little but self-destructive. A viscous tackle lost him his footing and laughter from the other players greeted his mouthful of mud. He grinned in spite of himself and sprang back to his feet to rejoin the match. Not long to go now, may as well enjoy it while it lasted.

 

vi

 

Sherlock Holmes had forgotten how good it felt to wear a suit. Since he'd landed there's been nothing but stolen uniforms from men whose hygiene standards were best left to the imagination. That morning he'd picked up a bundle of cash left for him and spent the day shopping for supplies to make himself look presentable for when he started work in earnest.

A credit card and papers were to be delivered to him after he checked into room 305 in a hotel in Subotica under the name Tapavika. Sherlock being Sherlock he checked in, went to his room and promptly climbed out the window and checked into a hotel down the street. When the people you're working for are quite happily sending you on a suicide mission, no level of precaution seems like paranoia. 

He lay back on the bed in his new room, which creaked quite alarmingly as he spread out, and let his thoughts drift. It was the first time in a month he'd had nothing to do. Nothing but sit tight and wait. He realised he hadn't stopped running in a long time. But chasing or being chased? He groaned and rolled over, remembering why he never let his mind idle. Absolutely no chance of a case here, or any other kind of stimulation for that matter. He was stuck with himself for the foreseeable future.

He wondered how John was - no. Absolutely not. No thinking of John or Baker Street or Mrs. Hudson or warm tea or the feel of a violin bow in his hand or...

He curled his arms around his legs and rested his head on his knees. List 243 types of tobacco ash. Go. 

-//-

"The problem is..." Mycroft grimaced and took another drink before continuing the sentence he was loathe to say "The problem is the whole plan. "

"Sorry?" said John, eyebrows pushed to his hairline. They were sitting in yet another nondescript inn on their way to the North of the country, just one more leg on their quest to catch the great detective. "Planning is your department," he hissed, " I'm just the... I'm the ... you know."

Mycroft pursed his lips in a reluctant smile. "Doctor you're more than you give yourself credit for we wouldn't have got half this far without your insight. However pandering to your ego was hardly my point. The problem is we can't just pick Sherlock up and take him home. He's no longer an errant child. I haven't caught him playing by the stream or going through our father's desk. An attitude which I appear to have unconsciously adopted. "

John let Mycroft speak. He had always been good at judging when to interrupt Sherlock and when to let him ramble down a thread. The elder Holmes clearly needed to exorcise some worries.

"It's all very well saying 'oh we'll meet him at the end', thing is if he's in too deep it will be dangerous to get a message to him, and a sudden extraction will put other agents at risk. I don't give a - well, you know - about the government's plans but I am loathe to risk more people's lives than necessary"

"Right." John said, then realised Mycroft was looking at him for an answer. Clearly he was meant to have picked up something from the conversation.

"What Mycroft? Just ask me." Being blunt tended to get him less of a fussy response from Mycroft than it had from Sherlock.

"How do you feel about playing spy John?"

 

vii

 

John was currently feeling incredibly out of place. Sure, he couldn't have been an officer in the army without knowing how to dress immaculately or being to more than a few formal occasions, but he was realising how long ago that life was. And really , playing the made up aide of a made up politician, at the residence of an actual politician he'd never heard of in a country whose politics he had not the foggiest idea about, in a foreign city where he didn't speak the language... well some discomfort was perfectly excusable he felt.

The politician he was fictionally meant to be aiding was handily being supplied by Mycroft. Mycroft himself, John had never seen look more vital. He supposed this was what it would be like if he were to watch Mycroft go to work on the government back home. For someone with no empathy or emotion the man could ingratiate himself into any crowd. He was scarily fast, in your inner circle before you realised you didn't know him, knew your daughter's goldfish's name before you could think to ask him to leave. And if he was challenged head on the man just melted backwards. Innocent, naive, no political motives, just vaguely interested observer. Someone who cared far more about the current biscuit selection in the staff room than any top tier politics he may have accidentally stumbled into.

Mycroft laughed warmly and gently drew John away from the group they had been talking to. Mycroft was keeping his fluent Serbian a secret and still smiling and laughing he updated John on what he'd managed to overhear.

"There's been many snide remarks made behind our backs asking how dare I show myself so openly whilst my country has made a sudden increase in its attempts at spying."

"A sudden increase? I thought-"

"Oh it's still all just my brother John, he's just been very quick. They don't think it could be the work of just one person."

"But surely he wouldn't be so careless as to be noticed so often?"

"He's hardly been careless John, it's just the nature of the work. We hardly used the term 'suicide mission' lightly. Still, they're all on their guard far more than I would like"

"I won't let that be a problem." said John. He was feeling so far out of his depth that he needed to promise himself he would succeed in this mission. Their basic plan was simply to get an opportunity to speak with Sherlock and tell him to stop. That his services simply weren't needed here any more and that he'd be welcome back in London. But should that prove more difficult, they had a few other distractions in mind.

Mycroft smiled wryly at him.

"No, I'm sure you won't."

-/-

Sherlock was currently running down a dark back street of Subotica, wondering just how much blood it was acceptable to have on your shirt at a fancy party.

He had been compromised, somehow, or more likely by someone. Either that or he'd just run into the most well trained and over zealous muggers in all Serbia, who simultaneously weren't the least bit concerned about his wallet. They would both be regretting their career choices by the time they woke up but right now Sherlock was not thinking about that. He emerged onto a small shopping street. Of course he was too late for any clothes shops to be open but he stopped into a small late night supermarket. They didn't have any first aid supplies to speak of so he made do with buying some hand flannels that would serve as gauze. He also picked up some soap, vinegar and soda water in the hope that they would in some way help him restore his shirt to it's former whiteness. Then he bought an espresso at a coffee shop bakery and slipped into their bathroom with his supplies.

His shirt was stained with blood and scuffed with dirt from the concrete but it cleaned up reasonably well. He just wouldn't be able to pass himself off as quite such a suave figure as he may have like, he was a bit too crumpled for that. He cleaned and bandaged himself as best he could, dressed, and pulled his shirt cuffs down to hide his knuckles. 

He was hoping the failure of his would be assassins would remain unnoticed for some time but knew he didn't have that kind of luck. Well, he thought, exiting the bathroom and the bakery, send your worst. Sherlock Holmes had a party to get to.

 

viii

 

John was not paying attention to what Mycroft was saying. To be fair he had been, a while ago, when the conversation started but since then had lost his battle to focus. He told himself Mycroft would find a way to signal him should the conversation become important, and anyway he would be able to give all his attention to the room around him. It was whilst letting his eyes drift that he noticed a man taking a phone call. The man had pulled his phone out in a hurry and frowned almost immediately upon answering. Not unexplainable of course but... he was muttering into it furiously and John was getting a worried twist in his stomach. 

"Excuse me sir," John said to Mycroft abruptly, "I need the bathroom, if you would direct me. I believe they're in the direction of the gentleman in the brown jacket on the phone."

Mycroft frowned at John for his complete lack of subtlety but excused himself from the conversation and was almost immediately at the side of the man taking the call. John took a loop of a dense crowd of people, hoping to make it look to the previous group that he had in fact gone to the toilet. Mycroft grabbed his arm roughly a minute later steering him across the hall.

"You were right," said Mycroft, "Sounds like Sherlock managed to to escape an assassination attempt and is on his way here, just a bit late. They're going to cut him off in the lobby before he reaches the hall and a guard is posted at the kitchen entrance just in case."

John nodded "I'll take the front,"

"That would seem to make sense, the kitchen guard should be easy enough for me to divert,"

"Will you be OK?"

"Of course, there is plenty in a kitchen to use to cause a distraction without resorting to violence John," Mycroft managed to sound affronted "And there are plenty of witnesses and you may be surprised to learn I can on occasion handle myself."

John nodded and set off feeling too tense to say another word.

As he was making his way to the exit for the front of the building the man in the brown jacket who had been on the phone blocked his path. Behind the phone man was an even grimmer looking gentleman also frowning at John.

They know, John realised, not daring to turn to see how Mycroft fared. The brown jacketed man gestured for John to follow. John hesitated. The grimmer gentleman began to move towards him in a way that suggested he was more than happy to push John where they needed him should John not follow. 

John merely straightened his back and nodded at phone man - the man who had ordered Sherlock killed, the man who was attempting to stop him trying to rescue Sherlock - and decided he was perfectly happy to be led where they wanted. Let them get him alone, John was certain he would not be the one regretting it.

-//-

Sherlock arrived at the gate and handed his invitation to the young woman in uniform stationed there. Her eyes were refreshingly unsuspicious as she read his name and waved him through. He had considered taking a side entrance, maybe breaking through an upstairs window but decided against it. This was Sherlock Holmes at his grand farewell. He was using the front door. After all who would he be without his flair for the dramatic?

He made his way through the lobby unhindered and into the glittering main hall. The lights suddenly seemed too bright and he wondered if maybe he was more shaken than he had realised. The lights were too bright, the voices too busy and his side hurt when he reached for a drink. He took a deep breath. Calm. Focus. Sherlock Holmes at his grand farewell. His last ever case. His last... dammit... He closed his eyes.

He was Sherlock Holmes. He could not be too shaken, too injured, too exhausted to finish a case. His eyes snapped open. He found an unsettling proportion of the room seemed to be watching him. And unsettling proportion who didn't seem particularly at place at a party. A hand gripped his elbow from behind in a distinctly unfriendly way. 

Ah. They know.


	3. Part 3

ix

 

John knew he wasn't in a great position, stuck between the two men, but he supposed letting them feel they had the advantage could work in his favour. They were leading him deeper into the house, away from the entrance hall, away from noise and people. Away from witnesses. He could have let them but... John decided he wanted this over. Brown jacket wasn't currently watching him, he was too busy leading the way into the house. John decided he could use the two seconds it would take the man to turn around.

John stuck his hand into his pocket in what he hoped would seem a threatening manner. He was rewarded by the feeling of hand on his arm and one on his shoulder as the thug behind (who John had dubbed 'Grim' in his head, in the hope there would be time for witty nicknames later) grabbed him. Grim wrested John's arm backwards and John leaned into this, and using the man's momentum to jab his elbow hard into the Grim's solar plexus. The man doubled over, gasping. John twisted, kicking one foot into the man's knee as he did so, unbalancing him even more. John grabbed the Grim's head and brought it down savagely onto his upcoming knee. John took advantage of Grim's disorientation to grab one of his arms and twist the elbow backwards, lock it, and use it to throw Grim to the ground, groaning.

Brown jacket was of course coming at John by this point, but John simply let anger and adrenaline carry him forward and he blocked the man's punch before slamming his own foot into his groin, then punching him hard in the face. Brown jacket stumbled backwards, gasping and uncoordinated. John decided he'd done enough and ran back to the main foyer.

He saw no sign of Sherlock there and so tore outside down the main steps. The staff on duty at the entrance had started to relax, some going as far as to sit down. They all snapped up in various states of guilt or suspicion as John came haring towards them. He found the nearest person with a clipboard, and grabbed it from the unfortunate woman's hands. She began to yell at him.

"Yes I know," he said, "I realise this is wrong and terribly impolite and I assure you not how how I would normally-" His eyes had found the name Tapavika. Two Tapavika's. Dammit Mycroft hadn't said what first name Sherlock would be using. But both of them were marked as checked in.

John turned wildly to the woman he'd stolen the clipboard from who'd clearly decided that John was drunk and was simply glaring at him with the long suffering look of someone who has become hardened to the effects of alcohol on the rich.

"Tapavika, he checked in?" exclaimed John, "What did he look like, when did he..."

He was receiving blank look.

"Tapavika," he said, pointing to the clipboard "He looked... looked..." John gestured frantically at his own face, "Hair and and cheekbones, and, what time?" he pointed to his watch. Still blank. Dammit, it couldn't matter that much, Sherlock had to have arrived in the last ten minutes.

"Sorry," he said, with as much feeling as he could inject into the word as he thrust the clipboard back. He bounded up the main steps. As much as John's instinct was to run straight in pursuit of Sherlock he realised he should probably collect Mycroft.

He found Mycroft in the kitchen, standing over the sink washing what looked suspiciously like blood off his cane.

"Ah Doctor," he said, tapping his cane on the work top and scattering water droplets everywhere. He took in John's appearance, "I trust you've had a similar run in with our friends? And little brother managed to evade us and is already inside. Sherlock really does not know how to help himself,"

-/-

Sherlock was at that moment too concerned about the fact he seemed to have been ushered out of the main hall to have any room for guilt about the circles he was causing his friends to run in, even if he had been aware of it.

"Please," he said to the man at his elbow, "I must make my introductions to Mr. Popovic, the Minister will not be pleased if I fail to-" The grip on his elbow tightened, and Sherlock realised he was already too far away from the main hall. He hadn't wanted to blow his cover and now it was too late.

They stopped. They weren't outside, but the room they were in was chill and dark enough as to make no difference. He counted eight men and two women surrounding him. Well, this was it, this was the end Mycroft had warned him of. Torture and death and all that. He imagined they would take him somewhere first, some dark little hovel where they could break him at leisure.

A man stepped towards him, clearly to ask questions. This was strange. Why try to get anything out of him here, whilst unsecured? Must be something of critical importance. He was sure there was nothing particularly time sensitive in the last set of papers he's uncovered but maybe-

"Who are your friends?" The man asked. Not the question Sherlock was expecting.

He laughed bitterly in answer, "If you know me - and I think I'll do you the courtesy of skipping the part where I deny that you do - you know that I haven't got any. In any sense of the word."

Friends? Had they put other agents on this too? He knew the government didn't trust his loyalty but surely his competence was beyond reproach. He was suddenly quite angry. Of course. The other agents must been exposed in their own bumbling and blown his cover.

The man stepped closer. One step. Carefully measured. "Who are they?"

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow contemptuously. The man nodded to someone behind Sherlock. "Dusan," he said.

Sherlock gasped as his arms were twisted behind him. Dusan was worryingly stronger than him. Sherlock bit his lip at the pain in his left which he'd injured in the fight with the 'muggers' earlier. He shifted trying to relive the pressure, but that simply hurt the knife wound in his side and he had move again. When Dusan finally stopped twisting Sherlock was left in what he felt was a slightly inelegant slump. Not quite the power pose he normally went for in confrontations with criminals. Still, he would work with what he had.

"I see your cat is still refusing to use a litter tray," He said to the man in front of him. He frowned. That was not the deduction he had wanted to come out. "And, of course, your girlfriend is cheating on you. And your bathroom light bulb burnt out three nights ago."

The deductions wouldn't stop coming. Of course, he was normally observant, but normally he could filter the information. But his brain felt overloaded. There was just too much crowding in there. Late milkmen, dead neighbours, broken pens, new shoes, overcharged on a taxi, new glasses prescription, all the little details from everyone's life clamouring to be heard. His mind was far too powerful really, he thought, and right now he couldn't get a handle on it. He was just too damn tired to do this properly.

Sherlock smiled to himself. Ah well, if it wasn't quite going to be the end he wanted, at least there was no one he was going to be telling the story to.

x

 

John had never had to chase after the elder Holmes brother. The younger one sure, it was basically John's job description. But up until this moment he would never have thought of Mycroft as fast moving.

"Wait," John called, "Wait! We need to think about this,"

Mycroft was not used to being called to account, but apparently the normal laws of the universe were not applying this evening. He turned to listen to the doctor.

"OK," said John, "OK, let's just stop. Our first plan was to intercept Sherlock and head him off. He was too fast. Then we were going to start playing spy as well, make contact and get him to quietly withdraw to not endanger other agents. Then that got blown. And now we've failed to intercept him. And... Mycroft what's left? How do we not put others at risk,"

Mycroft smiled grimly.

"You're going to get Sherlock and get him out of here,"

"And where is he? And get out where?"

"Head to the lawn and your ride will be there. It will not be subtle. The last month has rather eroded my subtlety. Sherlock is down that hall, second room on your right,"

"How-" John began before remembering the futility of questioning a Holmes.

"I am going back to the party to create a distraction. I believe you would call it 'making a scene'"

"Making a scene?" John cleared his throat and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Mycroft Holmes? Making a scene?"

Mycroft nodded.

"What you going to do, break up with the French ambassador whilst dancing the macarena?"

There was an ambiguous eyebrow twitch from Mycroft.

"Nothing quite so hysterical. I simply know a lot of information, and I believe now would be a good time to divulge some of it,"

John felt that chill again, that chill born of looking at something implacable and cold and much bigger than yourself. John could feel Mycroft's anger and knowledge and power, and staring it down was like squaring off against a crevasse in an ice field. Mycroft's plan had just become very simple: make it clear to everyone what he knew, what he could do with that knowledge, and and that they would let anyone he wanted to leave safely.

"Right," said John, "Right,"

"Doctor you are welcome to-"

"Oh I know damn well what I'm doing. I'm getting Sherlock and getting to the lawn,"

Because John Watson was many brilliant and wonderful things - a Doctor, a soldier, a detective, a husband, a friend - and right now he was going to save Sherlock Holmes. Because that's what John Watson did. And he was damn good at it.

-/-

The floor was hard. Sherlock was aware of the floor being very hard. Made of stone? Probably. He would have to investigate that.

He'd ended up on the floor a little while ago. The people who'd been talking with him all seemed to receive simultaneous phone calls and leave. They'd dropped Sherlock on the floor and left him there.

He reached out a hand to touch the floor and found it was more difficult than it should have been to extract an arm from his curled body. Moving his arm hurt a surprising amount, and when he drew his fingers across the ground the blood on them mixed with the dust on the floor to make a deep red mud. That wasn't very pleasant. Still, Sherlock had determined the floor was indeed stone. He was a detective after all.

His body unexpectedly flipped over and he was no longer looking at the floor. He was looking at... He laughed.

"Hello," he said to the lie. The lie of John Watson being there.

The delusion was saying something to him, but Sherlock chose not to listen. He was never going to see John again, and having to listen to him (even if he was fake) would have just been too painful. Well, he was nice to look at anyway and he helped distract Sherlock from the pain. God, he was in a lot of pain. John was a doctor, he would have been able to do something about that.

But Sherlock didn't have John anymore. He didn't have Baker Street, or Mrs Hudson, or tea, or anyone to save him. He had a cold floor, made of stone to lie on.

xi

John's feet jarred against the cold stone floor as he ran, sending small shock waves through his legs with every step. His dress shoes were not built for running. His suit was not built for running. John was concentrating on these things rather than the thoughts that were trying to intrude.

30 minutes.

That was the maximum amount of time he had calculated since Sherlock could have been caught.

30 minutes was not so long he kept telling himself and yet... 30 minutes was plenty of time.

Plenty of time for so much to have gone wrong, for so much damage to have been done.

He did not even entertain the possibility that Sherlock might be dead. Not even his darkest intrusive thoughts were that cruel.

John ran.

He found Sherlock in a dark stone room. It was full of dust, achingly cold, with no windows. John had been geared for a fight but clearly Mycroft's work had gotten here ahead of him. The adrenaline surged out of him and he dropped to the floor next to his collapsed friend. Something was clawing up John's throat, trying to push its way out of his mouth, making it difficult to breathe. He took in the smears of blood around Sherlock and the scuffs in the dust. Clearly his friend had been trying to move. Curiously that detail, Sherlock left injured and desperately trying to crawl across this awful floor was what made John angry. But he didn't have time to be angry yet, hadn't even had time to be fully realise he'd actually found Sherlock.

John was a professional. He had been a doctor in some of the most difficult circumstances imaginable. Which was why when he turned Sherlock over and Sherlock's eyes met his, when Sherlock recognised him, when Sherlock said "Hello," in that far away voice, John simply carried on with his medical assessment. Because if he thought too hard about any of this he was pretty sure he'd cry. Or vomit. 50/50 really.

John had imagined seeing his friend again for over six months. That had actually become a possibility the evening he had desperately confronted Mycroft and got through to him. John had imagined finding Sherlock and telling him he could come home a thousand times. He had wanted to save him from the demons he had gained from what had happened to him in Serbia the first time. He had wanted to get him back to Baker Street and see Sherlock sat in his chair in his dressing gown, irritable at not being able to smoke. Sherlock Holmes safe because John Watson would be there to keep him safe. He had imagined the many caustic greetings Sherlock would have for him, but the relief and happiness that would underlie that.

What he hadn't wanted to imagine was what lay before him now. The Sherlock in front of him was already beaten and broken. They had got to him first. Yes they hadn't had him for the weeks or months John had feared, but they'd managed to do plenty of damage. And Sherlock had been on his own for months before now. Alone with no hope of rescue.

Which is why Sherlock was looking up at him in recognition, but without really believing John was there.

John was a professional though, so no matter how much that hurt he methodically checked Sherlock's injuries. Sherlock had some cracked ribs but none had punctured a lung yet and his breathing was easy. John carefully set Sherlock's broken right wrist to one side as he used torn pieces of his jacket to bind the injuries bleeding most heavily. A stab wound in the lower abdomen was causing John the most concern right now, but he decided he could risk moving Sherlock.

As he worked John was talking to his friend gently and continuously.

"Yes Sherlock it's me, I'm here, Mycroft's here, we're going home. We're going home and we're having tea. And you're going to tell us how clever you were and..."

And on and on, enough to keep Sherlock awake, but apparently not enough to get through to him.

-/-

Not-John was being a very good doctor. Sherlock decided he really must congratulate his subconscious on such an accurate hallucination, he hadn't even known he knew that much first aid.

Not-John was being very calming and that was helpful because Sherlock was in a lot of pain. A frankly ridiculous amount of pain. He would have quite liked to pass out and not deal with any of it but clearly his subconscious was keeping him awake.

Then Not-John said his brother had come to rescue him and Sherlock almost laughed. Really, Mycroft? Mycroft had travelled to Serbia with John to rescue him? Maybe this hallucination needed some work after all.

 

xii

 

John managed to get Sherlock up off the floor. He slung the detective's good arm over his shoulder and began to make his stumbling way to the outside. His friend was still disorientated, something John was finding disconcerting to see in the normally razor sharp Sherlock, but John decided that could wait. Mycroft had said to get to the main lawn and he would arrange away to get them out. John realised he must have been naive to expect a car.

"How the hell," he shouted to Sherlock over the thumping sound of helicopter blades, "does Mycroft expect to keep this a secret,"

"He doesn't," said a voice behind him, "Come along doctor I've been waiting,"

"Jesus Mycroft, this is a bit much!"

"I told you, I am completely done playing nice,"

"Mycroft..."

John started. Sherlock struggled upright from where he'd been slumped against John. The detective seemed to finally be taking in his surroundings.

"Sherlock?" he said. John anxiously searched his friend's face for recognition, "Come on Sherlock, yes it's us,"

"John!" Sherlock's voice was pitifully weak, but the joy in finding his friend was there nonetheless, "John! You came! It's..." he cleared his throat, "Long time no see Doctor,"

"Of course I came Sherlock, we're going home. Mycroft's here, look-" But Sherlock chose that moment to pitch forward with a muffled groan. John caught him, but Sherlock's eyes were already closed, and he hung bonelessly in John's arms.

John turned helplessly to Mycroft. The elder Holmes' mouth was pinched into a tight line, Mycroft clearly distressed at the state of his brother.

"Get him to the helicopter," Mycroft said, his voice clipped.

John nodded, "Come on then,"

"No Doctor, you are to go on without me,"

"Mycroft?"

"I'm afraid they had one chance. They did have a chance for me to leave and not bring fire down upon them," Mycroft's voice was strangely distance, his eyes far away, "But that was dependent on Sherlock not being harmed,"

John could see the resignation in Mycroft and it scared him.

"No," said John, "No, you're coming with us now,"

Mycroft laughed coldly. "No John, you see, I can't let them get away with this,"

"And you won't, but I'm quite convinced you can do an equal amount of damage from back in London. This is over Mycroft. We've rescued him. And if he's going to stay rescued we need to leave now. And besides, I need your help carrying him."

Mycroft stayed where he was. This was a good sign John thought. Though he'd better bloody get done contemplating soon because- and yes, there was the first wave of armed guards streaming from the house.

"Ah," said Mycroft, noticing them "Yes I don't believe I've managed to get that faction as scared of me as I would like, and..."

John didn't care, he simply gently hoisted Sherlock up again and felt Mycroft take Sherlock's other arm. Together they struggled across the lawn towards escape.

-/-

Sherlock woke up to the plush surroundings of a private jet. His mind immediately began screaming warnings at him. This was a trap, he was on his own, they were coming for him, they were going to hurt him. He sat bolt upright and looked around. John - was it John, was it really John - came over to him, a worried look on his face.

"Sherlock, I need you to lie down again or you're going to hurt yourself,"

It was John, Sherlock decided, really John. John was, Sherlock deicided, the most wonderful thing to look at in the world.

"Come on Sherlock," said John, "Just don't hurt yourself anymore before we get to a hospital," John began to look decidedly sheepish "We need to set your wrist, and some proper stitches and I need another doctor to look at..."

"Doctor stop worrying yourself, you have done more than enough," said Mycroft.

Mycroft.

Sherlock stared dumbly at his brother.

"Sherlock, talk to me, are you alright?" said John.

"Yes John, just a but surprised that you got my brother out from behind a desk," But Sherlock was running through the motions, there was no real barb to what he said.

John laughed. Sherlock didn't think he'd heard anyone laugh in two months.

Sherlock felt the questions began to vie for attention in his head. How had they managed this? How had John persuaded Mycroft to come? What had happened?

But for once in his life Sherlock Holmes didn't let the questions take over. He lay down again, as John wanted him to, on the ridiculously comfy aeroplane sofa. As soon as he relaxed the pain in his body began to make itself felt, but Sherlock felt that a small price to pay. He hadn't relaxed in a long time. Not since he had been caught in Serbia the first time. He settled into the sofa but didn't let his eyes closed, choosing to keep watching John and Mycroft, to keep reassuring himself that they were there.

For now it didn't matter how they'd managed to get out the country, it didn't matter what awful mess was going to have to be untangled back in Britain, it didn't even matter how he was going to explain all this to Mrs. Hudson. Because Sherlock Holmes had people who had come to rescue him and for now, just for now, he could feel safe.

 

xiii

 

221b Baker Street was cold when they got back. It hadn't been lived in for months, and the chill had crept out of the walls to permeate the flat.

"You managed to extract your brother from an undercover mission in another country but you couldn't get the damn heating put on before we got back?" John asked Mycroft, only partially joking, as he deposited Sherlock on the sofa.

Mycroft graced John with a long suffering look and settled himself into an armchair. In truth John was simply grateful that Mycroft had come with them to move Sherlock back in after his release from hospital. Well, obviously by 'help' Mycroft didn't mean carry any bags or put the kettle on but still... John felt the moral support of Mycroft's presence was more humanity than the elder Holmes would have shown before. A modicum of brotherly concern slipping out in the form of sitting in a cold flat and putting up with it's indefinable smell.

John had timed their return during for an afternoon Mrs Hudson would be out. As much as he may love their landlady, and as much as her concern and attention would do Sherlock good, he felt Sherlock needed a bit of quiet for his move back in. Sherlock had after all never intended to come back here, had resigned himself to an awful fate, had given up on this life, and now was suddenly surrounded by chintz cushions and teacups.

Sherlock himself was lying quietly on the sofa watching John bustle around unpacking bags and making tea. He'd been released from hospital that morning on the understanding that if he would refrain from exerting himself for the next two weeks he might get away with no permanent damage. At least physically. John knew from past experience that enforcing bed rest on Sherlock Holmes would never be successful, but he was more than geared up to deal with anything the detective could throw at him the next two weeks. And besides, physically, he wasn't really worried about his friend.

Sherlock would have scars, would always bear the scars from his time in Serbia. Both the horrific web of lash marks across his back and arms from his first trip and a few more recent that time would reveal. But that he could overcome. It was wherever his friend had got mentally that worried John. John knew Sherlock was still dealing with the after affects of his first trip to Serbia when he'd been sent back again. When he had been abandoned by the country he'd done so much for, when he'd been sent away by a brother who claimed to have done what he could, when... When John himself had said goodbye. Even if he hadn't known it was permanent. They'd found Sherlock just too late. He was already resigned to not surviving the mission when he'd been caught. And even if they'd only had him for half an hour, they'd hurt him in that half hour. Badly. John was worried it was all too much.

But John Watson would do what John Watson always did: endure. He would care for Sherlock Holmes and keep him safe. He would remove the most poisonous things from the fridge and make the tea when Sherlock came back freezing cold at 3 am. He would protect Sherlock from the worst of London's criminal underworld and his own mind. There were already cases waiting in John's inbox. John smiled; he would have Sherlock back to work soon. He would be the fire that burnt at the heart of Sherlock's life, giving heat and hope. And it would have to be, would continue to be, would always be enough.

-/-

Sherlock was more grateful than he would ever admit for the comfort of his own sofa. He was getting tired far faster than he should have been and his whole body was a mix of sharp pain and old aches. Pain would normally make Sherlock irritable but he didn't quite have the heart to be today. He was back where he was supposed to be, and over time everything would be alright.

He was still reeling from the knowledge that Mycroft had come to rescue him. When his brother had sat and watched his torment the first time and made light of it afterwards it had hurt Sherlock more than he realised. Sherlock was gradually realising though the mountains Mycroft had moved to save him this time and he found it so reassuring that he had a brother in his life that would go to those lengths. Sherlock still couldn't quite believe all his brother's brilliance had bent towards rescuing him. And it gave him no small amount of pleasure the inconvenience cleaning everything up would cause Mycroft now.

And of course John had been as wonderful as Sherlock had always known he was, but now he knew that John had gone that far to save him. And that was a large realisation to wrap his head around. Sherlock would never quite know what he meant to those whose lives he was a part of, but now he had a slightly better idea.

Sherlock Homes was cold, he had been for a long time now. But the steady, solid presence of his brother and the gentle heat of John were begin to work. Gradually warmth was coming back into his world.

-/-

Mycroft went back to Serbia just the once. He went back to country house where they had so nearly been too late the second time, the forests where he knew his brother had been hunted, the basement where Sherlock had been tortured. From the dirty stone floors to muddy riverbanks to damp cell walls he drank it all in. All the pain and misery and fear. He had been to all these places before, but his perfect memory had not captured feelings (and besides Mycroft would never have let the feelings in in the first place). This trip was for forming new memories to carry with him. He had to know what Sherlock had been through.

Mycroft would always be indescribably grateful to John. Thanks to the doctor he now had his brother back, but he also had an understanding of what he himself could do. Mycroft stood in a miserable field, not far from the air strip he and John first landed in. For all he knew this could be beautiful countryside but he was more focused on what he felt here. The gentle keening of the wind through the long marsh grasses sounded like a faint moan of pain to his ears and he shivered, took one last look around, and walked off to his plane back to London. Back to his life as a simple Whitehall clerk, albeit one with a rather nice Pall Mall apartment and world class security. But he would carry something back with him.

Mycroft Holmes might still be the British government and one of the most terrifying forces on the world stage, but now that cold implacable wall of sheer knowledge and intellect would have just a touch of humanity in it. And the world had John Watson to thank.


End file.
